Saturday, December 15, 2012

Miles Standish Often Pushed

This is the writing that emerges when I don't want to write. Sunlight on the white barn all the brighter.

Dusty horses tossing their heads while led to pasture, as if reluctant, as if to insist. We issue our own challenge and then respond accordingly.

Writing is talking's extension. What is natural.

Saying goodbye, one felt only relief, as if having scaled a necessary crag. Sunset follows.

I am reflecting on the arms and armor of the pilgrims. What is the way we say no.

Earlier, folding our sleeping bags, I could not go on, could not. We must preserve what expires, no?

And thus write? Well, this anyway.

This welter, and this bell. And later still, working the new chainsaw, I remembered my uncle driving through Rhode Island in a moment of uncharacteristic quiet.

You can't not say goodbye. This writing is in effect farewell.

No, that's not right. Miles Standish often pushed farther than anybody else wanted.

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